


There is a raven

by Morbid_lizard



Category: Fae Tales - not_poignant, Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:05:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbid_lizard/pseuds/Morbid_lizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raven Prince's life doesn't revolve just around his court and Augus. Sometimes he wanders off and meets people. This may or may not be something that happened. </p><p>Who knows?</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is a raven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [not_poignant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_poignant/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Broken Feather, Straightened](https://archiveofourown.org/works/973180) by [not_poignant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_poignant/pseuds/not_poignant). 



> Uhmmm...I tried. Lol.

 

There is a raven perched on the windowsill. It tilts its head, looks into the room with a curious gaze.

This is what he sees: the room is small. There is a bed, right by the window. There is a chest at the end of the bed. There is a cupboard -right against the opposite wall- and then a table, and an armchair.

There is a man, sitting in the armchair. His hair is white, and so is his skin, pale and unblemished. His figure is delicate. His limbs are slim, his waist is narrow. He appears neither old, nor young. He sits, still, resembles a sculpture made out of glass. His eyes are closed. His eyelashes are thick, vibrate ever so often. He is dreaming.

The raven hops inside. **He** advances (for he prefers to be thought of as male, and so we shall address him as such) , has an air of confidence very few birds would possess. The room is his to do as he pleases. He is a king in a world made by human hands.

He approaches the man on the chair, tilts his head to get a good look. Not contented, he hops onto the table with a single flutter of his wings. The man doesn't stir.The raven waits.

Suddenly, the raven caws. He demands attention.

The man blinks, then sighs softly. He opens his eyes, finally, then he frowns, blinks once again, and the raven stares at him intently, allows him a moment to recompose himself. The man peers at the bird in confusion. He doesn't seem alarmed nor surprised, merely wondering. He folds his hands neatly onto his lap, gives the raven a gracious smile and a curt nod in greeting. The raven nods back, it is only proper.

"Good evening."

The man lifts his gaze to the wall, briefly, and he sees the raven's shadow twist and turn on the wall, stretch and grow, appear so much bigger. He assumes that he is just tired (he is always, _always_ so tired) and is seeing things. When he lowers his eyes back to the raven, the raven's eyes bore into him, pierce through him. He finds that he cannot move, feels pinned against his seat as if under the scrutiny of something that is much more than a bird, much more than anything he has ever seen (but he hasn't seen much of this world, hasn't in fact seen much of anything at all). He gasps softly, tries to catch his breath but cannot. A cold wave of panic twists in his chest and he lifts a hand and reaches out, wants to stop the raven from gazing at him any further. His fingers brush glistening feathers, caress the soft texture of the bird's coat for only a moment and it feels as if he's touching something he should not, something that burns his fingers and leaves him even more breathless. _He feels like he has touched the essence of the world itself._

The raven steps back abruptly, snaps his beak.If the man didn't know better, he'd say the bird looks affronted, _indignant_. He retreats his hand hastily, has the decency to lower his gaze and look ashamed. The crushing feeling is gone. The raven is once more just a bird.

To placate the bird's mood, gently, he offers a compliment.

“You have eyes the way i have never seen on a bird. Like beautiful jewels. So expressive."

 Now the raven appears pleased. He ruffles his feathers, once, then turns and preens them with care.

“Have you come to take me away?”

The man's tone is wondering, yet earnest and full of something that tastes of misery and longing. The bird of course doesn't answer, pays him hardly any mind. He is only a bird afterall.

Eventually, the man rises from his seat. He does so with measured movements, every motion is accompanied by an intake of breath, then a shaky exhale. His steps are slow and tentative but he moves with grace, makes hardly a sound. He walks to the cupboard and takes out a bowl of fruit.

The raven observes him as he comes back and sits once more into his armchair.

“I apologize, i rarely have guests and often forget my manners. I hope you will forgive me.”

He places the bowl of fruit within the raven's reach, gestures for him to take anything if he so pleases.

The raven complies (for ravens are voracious by nature) and he plucks a juicy grape from the bowl with his beak, then another. The man settles for a pear. He bites onto the fruit carefully, takes his time to savour it.

When he is done, he watches the raven. His gaze is pensive.

“I wonder perhaps if we might trade then. An equal exchange. I will give you anything."

The raven turns from the man, focuses on a particularly plump orange. His sharp beak plunges onto the fruit, cuts it in half with remarkable precision. He feasts onto the juicy pulp, hids the man no attention whatsoever. For all he seems to care, the man might not be there at all.

The man presses his lips in a tight line.

“I said I will give you anything. Is there nothing at all that you wish from me?”

 The raven raises his beak and _laughs._ A derogatory noise, filled with genuine amusement and ridicule. The man hangs his head, looks ever so tired.

“You laugh, but you were the one to enter my home. I shared my food with you. It'd be only mannerly for you to indulge my wish."

_There is a hand on his neck, claws dig in his skin and he gasps, stares at the Raven in fear. The Raven loosens his hold just so._

“ _You welcome me, and i am not without gratitude, but there is nothing you can offer me for your wish to be true. Nothing you'd ever part with willingly and that would not be oh so easy for me to take. You are being a foolish thing”._

_He lets go._

The man rubs his own throat gingerly, resists the urge to cough. The raven turns back to the orange.

“There must be **something**."

The raven devours the pulp of the fruit, shreds the peal and gobbles it, leaves nothing behind. He does not turn.

“ _There is always something. It does not mean you will give it to me."_

The man clenches his fists, but doesn't utter another word. The raven plucks one last grape, turns back to the man and swallows it whole, makes a show of it. His eyes stay fixed on the other one in something the man can't name.

“ _There is_ _ **always**_ _something_ ”.

The raven hops off of the table, spares the man not even a glance. He walks, calmly, to the window, lets his gaze wander about the room one last time before he is once again onto the windowsill.

He opens his wings, ready to fly off, then seems to change his mind. He folds them and turns to the man. He bows.

The man nods his head in return. It is only proper.

The raven leaves.  
  
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
The raven is back. He looks into the room, briefly, peers inside.

The man is at the door. He is wearing a heavy coat with an even heavier hood, thick gloves, dark leather boots. It is a puzzling choice of clothing, for the weather outside is anything but cold. Spring came early this year, warm and inviting.

He carries a satchel. He empties its contents on the bed, slowly, takes his time to inspect them one by one. A journal. A roll of parchment. Ink. Two apples, two pears, two oranges, grapes, a bunch of cherries, a smaller bag. The raven observes him.

“Good morning."

The man's tone is soft and cordial. He picks up the journal, then the ink, one orange, one apple, one pear, the grapes, leaves the rest on the bed. He walks to the table, his steps always so measured, his breathing a pained rattle. He places his load on the table, carefully, then sheds the heavy coat, rests it upon the armchair's back. The gloves follow, on the table. He sits.

“Are you perhaps waiting for permission to enter?”

The raven ruffles his feathers, caws loudly. He still does not make his way in.

The man frowns, then turns to study the raven. He cocks his head in wonder, appears a little surprised.

“You look shaken. Your eyes speak more than you do."

The raven huffs softly. Such an uncharacteristic sound for a bird, even more so for the Raven. Finally, he steps in. He looks around, scans the room with vague interest. Eventually, he approaches the man, then hops onto the table.

The man nods in greeting, the raven bows. It is only proper.

White thin fingers run over a leather cover with an affectionate touch. The man opens the journal, caresses the front page, stark and clear. He readies the ink and retrieves a quill from a drawer, then starts to write.

“Do take some fruit. Surprisingly, oranges are still in season."

The raven's eyes are fixed on the journal. He snaps his beak, pecks at the corner of a page. Frustration. The man keeps writing, doesn't let the raven's antics distract him, keeps his gaze to the words slowly filling the page.

“Do not take your bad mood onto my journal. It is rude”.

At this, the Raven seems to grow in size, glares at the man clearly annoyed. He inhales deeply. There is a flash of white behind the man's eyes, a throbbing pain. Blankness. Suddenly, he realizes he cannot recall what he did after waking up, cannot remember the whole morning up to when he was back home, raven at the window and heavy coat still on his shoulders. There is nothing, only a hollow void. He raises a hand to his forehead, eyes wide in shock.

The Raven smirks, looks smug beyond measure. He smacks his lips, satisfied.

The man purses his lips, not pleased. His shoulders sag and he sighs exasperated.

“Rude. Throwing tantrums, like a little child."

The Raven is shocked, grows even bigger now. He opens his beak, razor-sharp teeth a frightening sight. The man just shakes his head and resumes his writing.

The air stands still, the Raven a menacing presence. He spreads his wings, terrible in his anger, his aura oppressive, crushing, _frightful_. The Raven does not like to be ignored.

“What is wrong?”

The man stares levelly at the Raven now, quill forgotten on the journal. He does not sound scared or upset or terrified, not even close. Just lightly concerned.

The Raven instantly deflates, folds his wings to his sides. Embarassment, quickly concealed by an indifferent mien. A long silence stretches between them until the Raven, quite softly, conceides a thought, a dear secret.

“ _A rude child, hurt, and hungry, and clever. Impertinent. Arrogant. I find i am drawn to him against better judgement. It frustrates me. I have glimpsed the future, he is going to ruin me. It frightens me that I do not care_."

The man shifts, gestures to his own lap.

The Raven does not look pleased...but then again, he does not look angry either. Hesitation. He shuffles on his clawed feet, almost turns to leave, then turns again. He closes the distance between him and the man. He settles on the man's lap. The man does not touch him.

“He is important. You care, and what frightens you is that you do, and yet you persist. He must be an extraordinary person, to catch you so. You are ever so elusive, so guarded, but your eyes say it all."

The Raven does not reply, but settles still a little more comfortably. He closes his eyes.

The man retrieves the quill, resumes his writing once again. He places a hand on the Raven's back, lightly, does not do anything else. The scratching of paper resounds in the room, accompanied by shaky breathing, a light tremble, a soft tired sigh.

“I have made a habit of writing all that happens in my day, constantly. Filling journals with my thoughts, my hours. I do not want to forget."

He raises the tip of the quill's feather against his lips, chews on it, briefly, then dips the quill in ink.

“Before you took it from me, I am positive my morning went this way. Stop me if I am mistaken. I woke. I washed my face in the basin, right at the bed's side. Combed my hair, haphazardly, just so that it won't fall in my eyes. I gathered three...no, four baskets, one long carved cane. A bag of herbs."

He stops briefly, but the Raven does not interject, doesn't add anything. He continues.

“I put on a shirt, thick trousers. My coat, drew up the hood. The gloves, then the boots. I covered myself well, did not leave one bit of skin out. I left. It takes two hours to reach the nearest village, right at the outskirts of the forest. I did not stop to pick up anything. It was a long walk, frustrating. I did not enjoy it, I never do."

“ _You saw a wren, huddled on a branch. You stopped. It was a pretty sight, a good omen. Then, you walked on. It lifted your mood."_

The man jots it down, carefully. His fingers pet the Raven's back, once, then rest atop the back of his neck.

“I reached the village. They know I come the first friday of each month. No one walks the roads. Some have barred their windows."

The man pauses once more, feels he should explain (although the Raven knows, he has eaten a bit of the man and the taste is still sweet on his tongue).

“They call me the White Witch. They are scared, think that if they do not indulge me I will curse them. Maybe steal their children, whisk them away. I let them believe. It makes things easier. I do not have money, I cannot work. I cannot stand in the sun, it hurts, scorches my skin. This way, they take whatever I craft, trade things I need in exchange. I go to the man with the dark beard, the hard eyes and rough attitude. He towers over me, arms crossed. I do not know his name. He does not talk to me, they never do."

“ _He talks. He says, “Thank you for the angel roots. My daughter is well”. You think he looks awkward, for being such a big man, and there is something soft and less harsh in his features. When you trade a basket with him, he gives you more than you asked for. You thank him for it_.".

“I heard his daughter was not well. Her stomach is often upset, and she eats little if at all. I gave him a root of Angelica, there is a small patch growing nearby. I told him to grind it and make an infuse with it, give it to her to ease her pains. I am glad to hear she is better. He is a good man."

The Raven blinks slowly. The man strokes his back again, once.

“I go to another shop. I need a new journal. I brought a cane I carved myself, I heard the owner hurt his leg. I give it to him, along with a basket and my regards. He gives me parchments, a new journal, a bottle of ink. He likes the cane, and thanks me for it."

“ _He does not thank you. He eyes the cane with distaste, although he really could need one. When you are not looking, he places it in a corner, away from people's eyes. He does not dare to break it, but he will never use it. It is a shame, it is an exquisite thing."_

The man stops writing, scratches a sentence out. He hesitates, then writes it back, just the same.

“After that, I go to Nana. She greets me, a warm smile. I brought herbs to ease her pains, she has been ill for a while. She is old, and lately has been feeling under the weather."

The man eyes the bag of herbs on his bed, briefly, then continues.

“But now she is well, and does not need them anymore. She asks how I am, we have a pleasant conversation. She takes one basket, then has me bow down to kiss my brow, the way she always does for she is much shorter. Nana is not scared of me."

“ _She is dead. Her son is there to see you in her stead. He is a tall man with no welcoming words and no love, not for you. He says “You are a parasite, living off of people's fears”. He spits at your feet. He has never liked you, and has never approved of his mother's gentle ways with you. He calls you a cursed thing, a writhing worm who'd be better off underground, away from people's sight. You ask to see her one last time. He denies you that. He says “Our debt with your mother is cleared. Leave, and do not come back. If you do, you won't make it back alive”. You ask again to see her one last time, plead him. He bends down and gathers a rock. You turn to run, but he hits your shoulder, and you stumble and fall. You scratch your elbow, lightly, your heavy coat shields you from worse injuries.You scramble back to your feet, leave the rest of the baskets behind, on the ground. You lose three apples, one pear, one orange, a turnip, three carrots. You do not go to anyone else. You are tired and aching and heartbroken. You walk back home, hurting more than when you left, which is nothing new. You have to stop at the outskirts of the forest because you cannot see, tears blur your sight. You wish you were a worm. That way you would not inconvenience anyone. You go back home. It takes you three hours. You enter, and you see a raven on the window."._

The man is quiet. He has stopped writing, just stares down at the journal. Two damp spots slowly spread over the page, then a third. He opens his mouth, then closes it. He raises a hand to his shoulder, rubs it lightly, keeps quiet. Finally, he whispers in a trembling voice, quill back to the paper.

“It has been a good day. The trades went well, like usual. I go back home. It takes two hours. I enter, and I see a raven on the window."

The Raven clacks his beak. He opens his eyes to look up at the man, then lowers his head. He closes his eyes again.

“ _It has been a good day. You lost three apples, one pear, one orange, a turnip and three carrots to a woman. She is with child, but looks drawn, and tired. You ask what troubles her, and she answers that she has no food, for her husband got injured while working and cannot provide. They struggle to go on, day by day. You take pity on her, and gift her with what little you can offer, along with two baskets. She thanks you, dearly. She says “You are a good man”. She kisses your brow in gratitude. You feel warm, and pleased. You go back home, but on the way back you stumble on a root, then fall. You do not get hurt, not gravely. A bump on the shoulder, and a light scratch on your elbow. A wren above you chirps, lightly. You laugh. You think “So much for a good omen”. You lift yourself up, dust your clothes, then walk on. It takes you two hours. You enter, and you see a raven on the window."_

There is a long silence, again. Then a soft murmur, at last.

“Thank you."

The Raven dozes off to the sound of a quill scratching words onto a parchment, and a light hand stroking his feathers.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The Raven wakes on a cushion, next to the man's head. He blinks, a little surprised, for he is not used to doze so soundly. He lifts himself up, ready to leave.

“Mother and I, we have always lived here. She was kind, yet strict, with high morals."

The Raven stops on his tracks, turns to look at the man, eyes him curiously.

“She would not let me leave the house. Ever. When I was little, just a child, Nana's son fell gravely ill. Nana despaired, but mother comforted her, told her to believe things would be well. She gathered herbs, watched over Nana's son while she could not. Nana's husband was off to war, and she could not afford to stop working to look after him. It would mean death for both of them either way."

The man turns his face to the Raven. Fingers tenderly brush over the Raven's feathers, smooth the soft puff right below his beak. He allows the touch, does not seem to mind.

“He got better. Nana was ever grateful, and took it upon herself to look after me when mother passed. I kept to myself here, in the woods. I did not want her to incur the other villagers' resentment for looking after a cursed child."

The man closes his eyes now, exhales lowly.

“Father was a soldier, or so i was told. Off to war, like Nana's husband. Mother never spoke of him. Perhaps she did not love him, but sometimes she'd get this look in her eyes...”

His tone grows softer.

“Maybe she loved him too much. She only ever called me child, did not ever name me. I sometimes wonder if I reminded her of him."

The man trails off, his breathing slows. He falls asleep. There are creases over his forehead, sign of an uneasy rest. The Raven rakes his claws through his hair, lightly, then lowers himself and kisses his brow, right above his left eye. The creases smooth out.

The Raven stands and leaves.  
  
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

When the raven returns, one week later, the man is at his chair, like usual. The bird lets himself in, by this point he seems not to care about pretending wariness. He has shed such a thing long since his last visit.

There is a glint of metal, and a strand of silver falls to the floor. Then another. The man is cutting his hair.

“It won't take long. I do this once a year, you see. They believe it brings good luck, those villagers, and I weave it in the baskets I trade them”. He rests the scissors on the table before him, presses his lips in a tight line. “Ironic, mh? They will have a bit of me, but can't stand the whole thing.”

The raven shrugs, caws in dismissal: he has seen humans believe worse things.

The man eyes the raven quietly. He picks the scissors up once more, picks a lock of hair between two fingers. “If i give you my hair, will you grant me what i asked of you?”

The raven lets out a sound that is surprisingly close to that of a man's laugh, deep and cutting against the man's ears. The man puts the scissors down, leans back against the back of his armchair with a sigh. He closes his eyes.  
  
“You needn't laugh at me. I wouldn't know what else to offer, it is all I have."

There is only silence after that. The man thinks the raven gone, but then he feels clawed fingers rake through his hair in the slowest of motions. The touch is gentle, neither demanding nor inquisitive. Just curious. He feels a breath upon his cheek, then a whisper he imagines would come out of someone who is a bird and yet not.

“ _It is not enough. It is not all you have and you know. Do not think you can fool me_.".

The man opens his eyes and looks up. The raven is gone.

When he lifts a hand to his hair and carefully runs his fingers through it (feels the heat left by the raven's claws), he finds that a lock is missing.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

In the dream, the man walks dimly lit corridors whose walls are made out of tree roots. They are thick, and dark, vibrant with life. Glowing beetles scurry upon their surface, insects he can't name crawl and hiss as he walks past them. He keeps walking, is surprised because for once he doesn't feel quite as tired, doesn't feel as if he could collapse at any step. He reaches a throne room, a dark spacious hall whose inner walls are paneled with gigantic trees still, their enormous roots acting as seats for the strangest folks he has ever laid his gaze upon. There are creatures whose head is adorned with massive antlers, whose face barely resembles a human's or is not human at all. There are beaks and snouts and noses and no lips and sharp teeth and yet the man finds he is not scared at all. Each single guest, each single creature that litters the roots or the branches of the trees, sits upon them or leans against them or finds refuge under them, each single one of them is a beauty of their own kind.

At the centre of it all, perched high on a throne made out of silver filigree, shimmering crystals and throughly cleaned bits of bones sits the Raven (the man knows it is the Raven for his piercing eyes have not left him once since he entered the room, and he knows those eyes oh so well, could never forget them even if he tried).

The Raven is shaped as a human. Jet black hair frames his face in unevenly cut strands. His skin is pale, his features sharp. He wears a sleeveless black shirt with shimmering silver thread lining the edge of its collar. A dark emerald vest. Black pants and polished knee-high boots. A feathered coat rests upon one of the throne's arms, soft and glistening under the dim lights of the hall. There are rings on both the Raven's hands, discreet but stunning nonetheless. Bracelets adorn his wrists, and upon a closer look, the man finds the new location of his own missing strand of hair: it is weaved intricately in a simple looking wristlet, leather and hair forming a geometrical pattern.

The Raven gestures for the man to come closer, and he does so. He climbs onto the roots nearest to the throne, sits at the Raven's side balancing on a precariously thinning one.  
  
No one seems to mind him nor acknowledge him but the Raven. The man wonders if they can even see him at all.

“I wonder sometimes if the ambassador of the highlands of Mi'l looks upon his own person in the morning before joining the company of more civilized peers. I refuse to believe whatever he is wearing was dictated by a concious effort at looking presentable. Surely, his home must be void of mirrors, if he even knows what such a thing is.”

The man turns, and so does the Raven. Whomever spoke is sitting on the other side of the throne, balanced on a thick root.

The voice belongs to the most beautiful man he has ever seen. His hair is black, glossy and decorated with lush strands of what looks like waterweed. He wears a similar fashion to that of the Raven, but whereas the bird seems to prefer black, the mysterious stranger favours dark hues of green.

The Raven seems unable to take his gaze away from his companion, and the man finds he shares the feeling of raptured wonder at the other one's beauty.

Before he can help himself, he whispers in awed reverence “What is he called?”

The Raven smirks and looks back at the man, seems to have feasted his eyes enough upon the other one's gorgeous persona.  
  
“ _He is called Augus Each Uisge. He is a valued component of my court_."  
  
The ma- **Augus Each Uisge** turns abruptly to stare at the Raven, frowns in confusion.

“Pardon, your Majesty?”

The Raven still does not turn to Augus, his attention is directed elsewhere. He places a hand on the man's hair, lightly, pulls him closer so that he ends up leaning against the arm of the throne, head resting upon his own forearms. Augus observes them, strains to see what he cannot. To him the Raven is only holding onto thin air, yet he doesn't seem particularly unsettled. Just mildly confused, although his expression soon turns in one of detached interest. Apparently he knows better than to question the Raven's eccentric ways.

“ _I was telling my guest about you, Augus. He seems curious, and i cannot blame him._ ”

Augus frowns once again, his brow creases. At last, he smirks in amusement.

“Is there anything else your guest might want to know, your Majesty?

He thinks it all a game, something done in jest. The Raven doesn't correct this belief.

The man remains silent. The Raven's hand lays on top of his hair, unmoving. He doesn't stroke it nor caress it, just keeps his fingers on top of it in a sort of possessive way.

“ _He said you are a sight to behold, Augus. I can only agree.”_

The man lets out a bashful noise. Even if Augus Each Uisge cannot see him nor hear him, to be talked of and have his own thoughts spoken out loud is anything short of embarrassing.

Augus, on the other hand, seems nothing but pleased. He smirks, flattered, leans closer to the Raven.

“That is not a question i can answer, your Majesty, but i do accept the compliment nonetheless. How polite a guest. If i didn't know better i might even end up believing they are courting me. “

As Augus leans closer, his damp hair drips lightly onto his shoulders. The fabric of his shirt turns wet ever so often, only to dry the next second. “How peculiar”, the man thinks.

He pauses, stares at the waterweeds in Augus Each Uisge's hair for a while. He realizes they are not decorations, that they grow out of the fae's scalp.

“Could...may i touch them?”

The man looks up at the Raven. The Raven, in turn, stares at Augus.

“ _He wonders if you may let him touch your hair. What do you say, Augus?_ ”

There is a light twist in Augus' features, a quick frown soon replaced by a knowing look, although his expression betrays wariness. Finally, he smirks.

“Why, it would only be rude not to comply at such an innocent request. He is, afterall, a guest of your Majesty. Please, do proceed.”  
  
Augus leans in towards the man, or where he thinks the man might be for he still does not believe for anyone to be there. The man looks at Augus, then at the Raven. The Raven only nods, gives the man permission.

The man lifts himself up carefully, then reaches out. He presses fingers to the top of Augus' head, right where the waterweeds sprout. There, he takes hold of one in the most careful way, strokes it between two fingers. It's wet, and sleek to the touch.

Augus' reaction is immediate. He shudders abruptly, unwillingly lets out a soft startled moan. As soon as the sound escapes his lips, his eyes widen in shock and he covers his mouth in embarrassment. He lifts himself up, clears his voice a few times while his cheeks turn the faintest shade of green. His eyes do not leave once the spot where the man sits, frantically trying to ascertain a presence that he cannot see.

The man retreats his hand mortified: he did not mean to upset Augus.

The Raven smirks, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. It is obvious he is enjoying himself quite a lot.

“ _Thank you Augus_ ”.

Augus lifts his gaze to the Raven. He schools his features into a curt smile, an agreeable countenance. His eyes betray him. There is no pleasure in them.

“I'm ever at your service, your Majesty."

The Raven lifts himself from the throne, lets Augus take hold of his feathered coat and rest it lightly onto his shoulders, close the leather clasps with swift fingers. Gracefully, he descends from the roots, gestures for the man to follow him. Augus does not follow.

They walk past the entrance of the throne room, past the corridor whose walls are made of dark roots, littered with glowing beetles and slithering insects and things the man cannot name. Overhead, a starry sky whose constellations the man has never seen. It is beautiful.

The Raven leads the way, and when they walk over a wooden bridge, right over a flowing river, fish leap at their passage. The man stops, smiles in awe. He has never seen such wondrous sights in his whole life. He gazes down below, admires the way the fish swim in the current, green and silver flecks in the running water. When he lifts his gaze back up, he sees the Raven far ahead, and he hurries to catch up. His limbs do not ache, and when he is back to the Raven's side, he is not even short of breath. It is a wonderful feeling, and he has to inhale deeply, savour the lack of fatigue and difficulty of breathing.

“ _You are enjoying yourself_."

The man nods, looks up at the Raven.

“It is extraordinary, like nothing I have ever seen in my life."

The Raven smirks, looks pleased, and proud. The man looks back to the river, the flowing current, its dark, luxuriant banks adorned with vegetation. A thoughtful pause.

“Augus Each Uisge. He reminds me of a lake, still waters and dense vegetation. Dangers lurking beneath the surface."

He looks down at his hands, strokes his index finger against his thumb as if trying to relive the feeling of dampness under his fingertips.

“His hair felt...sleek to the touch, yet rough all the same. Wet."

“ _It is a_ _ **mane**_ _. It is coarse_."

The Raven's smirk widens, and he chuckles under his breath, recalling something that is only for him to know.

“An impertinent child, hurt and hungry and clever."

The Raven's smirk fades, replaced by a gloomy expression.

The man falls silent, regrets crossing the Raven so. How impolite of him. He tries to change subject.

“I have never been this far from home."

He knows it is far, for they are not even under the same sky no more.

“Mother said never to leave, the world is a treacherous place. Unsafe. I took her words to heart. I am but a coward, but if you only would let me stay here, with your magic, I'd- “

“ _Seelie are not allowed in this court, unless invited, and i have no interest in keeping one at my side. It is perhaps most unfortunate for you to be born into such an alignment. It is only a cause of grief for you."_

The man stares up at the Raven. He doesn't understand.  
  
“What is Seelie?”

The Raven stares down at the man. He doesn't explain.

“ _One hour in the Unseelie Court. For the fruit you gave me, and for your lost morning. We are even_."

The Raven takes hold of the leather bracelet around his wrist, then snaps it with a swipe of his claws.

The man bolts awake. He is in bed, back to his home. Back in the room with the table and the armchair and the journals and the cupboard and the chest and the pain and the laboured breathing and unsteady steps and perennial night.

He draws a shaky breath, presses his forehead to his knees until the urge to cry finally abates.

The Raven can be oh so cruel.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It is a month before the raven is back, but the man is nowhere to be seen.  
He is not sitting into his armchair, he is not at the cupboard. He is not in bed, where the bird expected him to be for the sun is particularly merciless today and the man tends to shun himself from its rays in the way nocturnal creatures do.

The raven enters the room. He peers under the bed, but still the man is not there either.

How odd.

He leaves the room. It is not quite magic of the simplest sort, to locate someone's whereabouts with not even the help of something that belongs to them, but he still finds the task almost too easy.

He finds the man crouched against a tree, scrambling to fit under the shadow of its massive branches. The man does not acknowledge the raven. He is too busy trying to make himself as small as can be, so as to fit better against the trunk. He is naked. His skin is burnt, viciously reddened, his breathing sounds ragged. There is a bleeding gash upon his forehead.

The Raven lands before the man's feet. He observes him quietly, then magnanimously covers him with his own coat, draws him closer. The man gasps in pain, squeezes his eyes shut.

“My coat....they...m-my coat, they stole it, took it from me...! My clothes, ripped, torn apart...they were _waiting_ for me, did not dare to kill but- !....I...what will I do, what will I do without...? They told me to leave _,_ to _leave and never be back_.”

The Raven cradles him to his chest, then lifts him without strain, as if the man was made out of thin air, his weight insignificant. He flies off, goes back to the man's shelter. There, he sits on the bed, keeps the man close. He places his claws on his chest, does not touch him. A flare of light. The man is whole anew, skin pale and burns gone. The wound on his forehead is just a faint line, crusted with dried blood.

The man clings to the Raven's chest, tightens his grip over the leather clasps of his coat. Trembles shake him hard, render him unable to do anything else but hold onto the Raven. The Raven rests a hand over the man's back, strokes it softly, once.

“ _It is over. I found you_."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
The man lays in bed, stares up at the ceiling. The Raven sits at his side.

“I should have seen it coming. I was foolish to believe this would last, after- “

He stops, rubs his forehead, tries to ease a throbbing pain that just won't go. Tiredness makes his head ache, yet he cannot find rest. He thinks with longing to the dream, where there was no pain and no hurting and no **this**.

“They call me a parasite, a vermin, a wretched creature. The White Witch...”

He laughs softly. It is a hollow sound, exhausted and anguished.  
  
“They started it, this...this charade, this thing. I played along, I thought...They call me a witch, a spirit, a _fae_ , yet I have not hurt them once. I have not done anything. I could not. If i were fae, why would I live this way, having to beg for a scrap of their food? If i were fae, why would I...If i were fae, I could...with you...”

The man presses his lips in a tight line, stares up at the Raven. The Raven does not look at him, just fixes his gaze on the opposite wall.

“ _They are right. You are fae, a miserable little thing born of humans."_

The Raven starts to stroke the man's hair. He sounds wondering, as if talking to himself rather than to the man. It does not matter.

“ _Perhaps your mother was not a model of virtue, afterall. Not forced into something she did not want, but rather a weak woman with weak desires. Perhaps your father was not a soldier, gone off to die for a country that does not care. Perhaps he was fae, dazzling and shimmering on a summer day, beckoning and promising a simple country girl something better than the tedious life of a rural upbringing. Perhaps she went with him, and came back with a swollen belly and a broken heart. Perhaps she-”_

“Stop. Please." _  
_

The man covers his ears, no longer able to face the Raven _._ His words insinuate in his mind, unrelentless. The Raven does not like to be ignored.

 “ _You are fae, and Seelie, and doomed to_ _ **this**_ _because of it. You are always so tired because you are wasting. It will be years and then centuries and still you will live, longer than any human you might ever know in your life, and always tired and always longing for something you cannot have. You cannot feed because your nourishment -the sunlight itself- is what hurts you as well, and you have to settle for things that were just touched by its warmth. Fruit, herbs, flowers. You are like a frail plant which cannot be left in direct light because its leaves are too sensitive and what is supposed to make them stronger only ends up hurting them.”_

The Raven stops, seems to mull over something.

“ _It is as if the world itself were rejecting you_ ”. A pause. “ _What a sorry existence that must be_."

There is no symphathy in his voice. He is just stating things as they are.  
The man can't help but agree.

What a sorry existence indeed.

The man turns on his side, curls up under the blanket. There is no comfort when he feels feathers brush against his cheek as the Raven kisses him goodbye, right above his left eye, the way he so often does as of late. It is neither kind nor loving a gesture, just something indulging. Condescending. As if he were a kid and the Raven a father chasing fears he knows are senseless away.

Later that night , as he lays awake in bed still, the man thinks of the Raven. Of the way he sometimes looks at him, frightening and feral. The way a bird would look at a succulent fruit, ripe and ready to eat. A shiver runs through him, and he cannot tell if it's out of fear or anticipation.

He now knows what the Raven wants from him.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The following morning, right before sunrise, the man burns everything he has ever written.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The raven stands on the table. He eyes the man curiously, cocks his head to one side when the man retrieves something from a drawer.

He shows the raven a parchment. It is small, and neatly cut. The paper is expensive, was made with care, and it shows. Upon it, there is a single word, its letters a dark crimson. It is not written in ink.

The raven stares at the sheet. His gaze is hungry, _ravenous_ (was there ever a more appropriate word?).

“This is my name."

He places the parchment before the Raven like a precious gift (and it is, it is the most precious gift of all).

“No one knows it but me because i chose it myself."

The man purses his lips. He continues, there is an uncertain quality to his voice.

“I have heard one musn't give fae their name. That it is dangerous, and thoughtless, because a name is all that makes a person so”. He pauses, takes a shaky breath, then adds in the softest of tones “I am giving mine to you."

The Raven smiles, white teeth gleaming under drawn thin lips.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The man is alone in his room.

He caresses a feather lightly, presses it between two fingers. He lifts it to his lips, kisses it with endearment. When he feels sharp teeth bite at him, **into** him, deep inside, feels his very being slowly being consumed ( “ _a name is all that makes a person so”_ ), he opens his mouth, places on his tongue the fruit of his trade.

He swallows.

He lives a thousand lives at once. It is days and weeks and months and years and centuries and millennia, all upon him in a rushing wave _._ Tears startflowing and a sob so harsh that he thinks his body might burst wrecks through him but he can't stop them and won't stop them because _he has seen the world at last, he has seen_ _ **worlds**_ _and he presses his hands to his mouth tightly to keep everything in because the feather tastes of pure unadulterated_ _ **freedom**_ _and his body alone is just not enough to contain it. He tastes_ _ **the sky**_ _and rainbows and sunkissed fruit and leaves and the colour of autumn. He tastes knowledge. He tastes the crisp air of winter and the oldest of mountains and the coldest of lakes and the hottest of deserts. He tastes clouds and nebula and shooting stars themselves and the universe speaks to him in a thousand tongues and he understands them all. He tastes sun on glistening feathers, he tastes warmth that can only be gained by laying beneath an oak tree in lazy abandon. He tastes the intensity of a predator's gaze._

_He tastes the Raven._

_And he wants more, he wants more than he could ever have but it is also enough and he traded all that he is for this very moment and he couldn't be **happier**. _

The man lets out a soft laugh, contented, at last. Then, he dies _._  
  
There is nothing left of him behind.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

There is a raven perched on a windowsill. It tilts its head, looks into the room. The room is empty. There is no man in an armchair. There is no bowl of fruit or scissors snipping at silver or scrawled journals filled with wistful lies.

The raven doesn't enter. He has gained what he wanted, and given what was asked of him. There is a flicker of tongue beneath sharp teeth, a satisfied smack of lips. He bows, ever so elegant (it is only proper), there is a flurry of feathers, and he's gone.


End file.
